the lamentable author's scrapbook
by puppetierin
Summary: in which I post bits and bobs of Hetalia stories, not necessarily completed or any good. Characters, genres, and ratings will vary by scrap; rated T for now.
1. Introduction and Notes

A brief introduction, before we get started...

Hello! I am a writer and I have a lot of troubles writing. I have a lot of random story scraps lying around, and nothing much to do with them. I draw inspiration from people, so I'm hoping that you'll read something you have an opinion about and comment, whether it's "I like this, why don't you give this story a go again?" or "What is wrong with you, that is absolutely wrong/stupid/et cetera." The APH fandom is just plain awesome, and I really enjoy being a part of it! Hopefully, this will also help me get to know the Hetalia fanfiction crowd a bit more.

Also worth noting is that because these are scraps, the quality can be pretty diverse. Sorry about that. "Your prose stinks" is an adequate and often accurate statement - just be sure to tell me where so I can agree and laugh about it. ^^

Thanks for reading, y'all!


	2. beach scene: UK, Nordics, Sealand

"...You don't want him to become America."

England tears his gaze away from the image of Sealand and Finland burying Sweden in the sand. Iceland is watching him from a few meters away, a sweating can of soda in one hand. England's eyes settle on it, blurred it into oblivion. "That's why you don't want him..."

"My colonies have a habit of leaving me," says England. He's had a few beers already, or else he wouldn't be talking to this pale, scrawny, _nosy_, stunted boy...

Iceland stares at him for a very long time, face unreadable, before turning away to stare at the ocean and sip at his drink.

"I wouldn't know," he says thoughtfully. "Though Sealand's situation is not quite the same as America's was. Peter may never grow up."

"That's what I thought about America."

"If you're so sure about it, why haven't you told Sve and Tino?"

England smiles bitterly and stands up, dusting the grit from his slacks. "They wouldn't believe me if I tried."

"...But you still care about Sealand. Or else you wouldn't have come here to check up on him."

"It's complicated."

"Obviously."

Finland notices England out of the corner of his eye and hails him. Sweden sits up immediately, the damp sand cracking across his chest in plates and his glasses flashing in the sunlight. Sealand, startled to laughter, runs off with a rather high-pitched shriek to splash through the incoming waves.

They exchange cursory greetings and an awkward silence before England excuses himself, leaves the sunny seaside to return to his private plane and then to his life.

"What was that about?" asks Finland, scratching the back of his head as he watches England's profile retreating.

Iceland shrugs once, unwilling to recount the conversation, and Finland eventually lets it drop; however, Sweden's eyes are more observant, and he probes Iceland's face with practiced patience.

"Channeling your brother today, eh," he says, one eyebrow twitched upwards.

Iceland only shrugs and finishes his soda.

* * *

><p>Hetalia and all characters do not belong to me; I only own the story, etc.<p>

England is a very curious character. Of most of the Hetalia characters, I feel compelled to flesh him out more fully. What's going on in his mind?


	3. AU: Romano, Italy, Spain, France, US

**part one**

A week. One week. Just one. That was all.

Lovino tucked himself into his favorite climbing tree and sulked, waiting for Feli's car to leave the driveway. The argument – onesided, as it was – had started over breakfast, a few minutes before.

"Lovi…"

"Hmm?" Lovino didn't even look up from his cereal bowl.

"You don't like it very much here, anymore." It was not a question, but an observation, and rather an astute one for Feliciano. His arms were folded on the table, head nodded slightly to one side, hazel eyes watching Lovino very carefully.

"No. I don't." Lovino took a sip of coffee and stared right back at his brother, who remained somber and quiet, taking in Lovino's tense posture and clenched fists.

"Lovi…"

"What _is_ it, Feliciano?"

"I'm not attacking you, Lovino… I'm just trying to say something to you." He leaned across the table and looked calmly into his brother's eyes.

Once upon a time, any anger in Lovino's tone would have provoked fear and trembling from Feliciano, who would beg him to stop and be happy. Today, however, the younger brother radiated strength and composure.

Lovino hated him for it.

"I don't want to hear it," he snapped, looking away and crossing his arms.

"Will you listen anyway?" He took a deep breath. "I think you should find a job. We don't really need the money, but I think it would help if you had something to do every day. So you're not just stewing in your thoughts…"

It was a good idea.

"What a stupid idea," said Lovino, getting up from the table and heading through the kitchen's back door, where sunlight and a morning breeze was pouring in. "If we don't need the money, why would I take a job? I'd just be taking the money away from somebody who could actually use it."

There was a pause as their unspoken thoughts flickered between them. Feliciano got up and put his dishes in the kitchen sink, hovering near the door. "Just think about it, okay, Lovi? Sometimes, you – well, I'm worried. About you. Okay?"

"I don't need your sympathy!" shouted Lovino, whirling around to find his brother gone. His words seemed to echo through the empty hall and kitchen.

"What do you need, Lovi?" whispered Feliciano as he closed the front door behind him.

And that was the argument. The whole of it. Lovino had clambered into the tree, feeling a spring of some sort of angry pride and shame and frustration well up in his chest. He swore violently, swung his fist against the trunk of the tree.

It did nothing, had no effect on the beautiful day unfurling across the world. Just like him.

**part two**

Lovino spent his morning in the tree, coming down only once or twice to seize a book and a sandwich. He was still in pajamas, and as the day grew hotter, he took off the ratty shirt and dropped it onto the ground. It was an agreeable way to spend a summer afternoon with a disagreeable person.

Around two – or what Lovino guessed was two, he hadn't put on his watch – an unfamiliar car pulled into the driveway. He ignored it and went back to his book, sure that any solicitor would assume that no one was home.

However, it wasn't any solicitor. The owner of the car waited on the porch for a few minutes, checked his watch, and then walked around the house to check the backyard, finding the crumpled shirt and standing over it questioningly.

"Hey, you're trespassing. This is private property," he said loudly, leaning down to get a better look at this stranger. The guy jumped and looked up, an apologetic look on his face. "Ahh, sorry, sorry," he said, holding up his hands. "Are you Feli's brother?"

"So what if I am?"

"Is he here? I have a delivery for him. Some plants."

"Plants…?" Lovino stared at him, completely thrown.

"Yeah. Lots of Italian cooking stuff. Oregano, parsley, basil, and, of course—" he kissed his fingers and threw his hands out, smiling widely "—tomatoes! Roma, cherries, and some recommendations from myself, of course."

"Of course," said Lovino without thinking. He blinked. "Who are you? How do you know Feliciano?"

"Ah, sorry. I probably should have introduced myself earlier. I'm Antonio Carriedo, and Feli and I know each other through a mutual friend, Francis Bonnefoy…?" He paused, seeing Lovino's face darken, and, to his great surprise, threw back his head and laughed. "You know Francis too, I see. Great, isn't he?"

"Great, like the plague," muttered Lovino, on the defensive before he could stop himself.

"Ahaha, yes. Anyhow, he's a florist, right? He buys some flowers from me – I run a greenhouse on the outskirts of town – and when Feli asked about the plants, Francis referred him to me." He sighed. "What a great kid! He told me all about his brother and all the troubles he was going through." Lovino stiffened. "That would be you, huh? Hey, no worries. We all run into tough spots, it's nothing to be ashamed about. Well, I guess your brother's not home, so could you tell me where to put everything? I have a few more deliveries to make before my lunch break is over." Lovino swung himself down from the tree, ignored the shirt at his feet, and gestured towards the abandoned gardening shed.

"You make deliveries during your lunch hour? That sucks. How come you don't have someone else doing it?" he yelled after Antonio as he disappeared around the corner of the house. Antonio reappeared a few seconds later, laden with cardboard-potted plants, setting them down with a small grunt and answering.

"I used to be the delivery boy," he said, retreating and calling over his shoulder. "My boss – the adorable old fart— won the lottery last November, moved his entire family to Florida. He stayed long enough to get me the ropes, gave me the whole business as an early Christmas present, and now he spends his days fussing over his adorable squirty grandkids. Sends me pictures every other week! The nerve of him."

"It's not actually ballsy if you _like_ seeing them," pointed out Lovino.

"Mmmm," said Antonio with a smile. "Anyways… It would be nice to have a deliveryperson, I can admit that. But the only people willing to accept what I can pay are too young to drive."

Lovino froze, eyes fixed on a point in the distance.

"Sorry for chatting at you! A bad habit of mine. Well, tell Feli I said hello. I'm sorry I missed him. Have a good one!"

And just like that, he was gone.

It wasn't until later that Lovino realized that he hadn't given Antonio his name.

**part three**

Feli came home early that night, a pint of ice cream under his arm, to find the house seemingly abandoned. He deposited the ice cream in the freezer and called his brother's name down the stairs to the basement. The reluctant and muted reply told him that Lovino was working in the darkroom. Good: that meant he had been doing something all day. Singing mindlessly under his breath with the radio (and sometimes quite aloud), he set about preparing dinner.

Lovino stomped up the stairs a few minutes later. He paused and leaned against the door jamb, watching his brother bustle between sink and refrigerator, bouncing in time with the music. His frown was thoughtful, rather than antagonistic, and he waited for the music to fade to commercials before speaking.

"Some guy named Carriedo came by today. Dropped off a bunch of plants."

"I know," said Feli, without looking up from the red peppers he was slicing. "I swapped shifts with Alfred so I could plant everything tomorrow. It'll be nice to have all of our favorite herbs so close at hand, right?"

Lovino ignored this last question in favor of asking one of his own. "...Why did you have him deliver the junk while you weren't home?"

"Hmm?" Feli, in reaching around to seize a container of mushrooms, looked at Lovino, confused. "I just asked him to bring it all over when it was most convenient to him today. But you met him, right? He's so nice! He looked at the list of stuff I wanted and said I could get everything at a discount if I invited him for dinner when I cooked with everything."

"Hmm? You invited him over?"

"Of course! I was thinking we could have Francis over, too, and eat in the backyard. Or maybe on the porch?" He glanced at Lovino and sighed. "Don't be angry at Francis, Lovi; I trust him. I think you should, too."

"He changed you."

"He let me change," said Feliciano, the stressed syllable not entirely gentle. Lovino opened the fridge to stare at an empty jug of milk (the one he'd carelessly put back an hour before). He tossed it into the recycling and resumed staring, not wanting to look at Feliciano. The radio stuttered in the corner, losing the signal. Lovino allowed the cool air from the fridge to waft over his face and neck. He closed the door and reached for an apron.

"What are we having tonight?"

* * *

><p>Still don't own any of the characters, just the story, etc.<p>

Obvious plot is obvious!

I really sympathize with Romano... I'm a very shy and guarded person emotionally, so I wanted to try exploring the world of small-town America (and, of course, looooove) from his point of view. It's a good and simple story, and the prose isn't too bad, I just kinda futzed out on it at the last minute. :\


	4. AU: Romano, Italy

Feli flipped through a stack of developed photographs Lovino had just picked up. "Woow, Lovi! These are really good! They remind me of how beautiful Italy was – is!"

"They're not that good." Lovino's expression was curt, but inside he shrank away from himself in disgust. These pictures were his pride and joy. Why was he now abandoning them?

"Huh? You really think so?" Feli considered one of the pictures and smiled. "Well, I still like them. Hey, maybe Grampa will send both of us together next time!"

The telephone rang. Feli got up to hunt down one of the nomadic receivers, leaving Lovino to stare at the dusty sunbeams that washed in through the open window.

"_Grazie_, Feli," he said, his voice weak and sad.

* * *

><p>I do not own Hetalia or any of the characters.<p>

So, uh, in my head, Romano is an amazing photographer and Italy is awesome at painting. It's also worth mentioning that I had to rework the Romano-centric AU concept a few times to hit the right chord, so some scraps will come from that alternate version as well. I'll try to scatter them through other pieces, though.


	5. divide: US, UK, Russia, Germany, Prussia

**Warning: F-bomb.**

* * *

><p>"It is not so hard a problem, yes? There are two nations representing Germany. Two sides for Germany to take."<p>

A pair of languid eyes glowed from the depths of uncertain shadows. It might have been a trick of the imagination, but the lights seemed to flicker more on that side of the room…

Soviet Russia stood underneath the struggling lightbulb, his hands resting squarely on his favorite water pipe, his expression shallow and calm. America and Britain prowled the other side of the room, their faces colored various shades of grey.

"Forgive my curiousity, comrades," said Soviet Russia after a brief silence, causing both of the western nations to turn to stare at him. "But where is France? I thought he would like to have a say in the destiny of our friends."

"The frog has other matters to deal with," said Britain, voice hard. "America and I can handle this negotiation just fine, thank you."

Soviet Russia shrugged, his chilly smile vanishing for an instant into the folds of his scarf. "There is no negotiation. Two nations. Two sides. The only problem is who should go with whom."

"I'm not going to look one of them in the eye and tell them to go to hell with you."

America's voice was hoarse. It was the first time he'd spoken for the whole conference, instead pacing about and glowering. He'd stopped and looked past Britain and the worn metal table, his hands deep inside his pockets, to Soviet Russia, who merely beamed in return.

"That will be unnecessary, I think. There is no way to solve this democratically – as I know you would prefer – so we let them decide. Let them choose their own paths, da? Surely there is nothing more… autonomous."

He took their outraged silence as encouragement, and stepped outside briefly to speak with the guards.

"They will bring them here in a few minutes." Soviet Russia sat down in one of the two supplied chairs, his pipe at the ready across his lap, and twiddled his thumbs merrily, unperturbed by the dirty looks America and Britain were shooting at him.

Time passed erratically, the seconds jumping to minutes that eventually coalesced into an hour before the door was rapped upon, unceremoniously opened, and the two prisoners shoved through. They were handcuffed and seemed dazed, the bags under their eyes standing out in stark contrast to their pale skin and hair. Soviet Russia stood, offered his chair to the brothers; they sat uneasily, cornered by the scowls from the three convening nations.

The elder spoke first; the younger's eyes were half-closed, his breathing light and thin.

"Why are we here?"

Britain averted his eyes.

"We are… separating the country of Germany. There will be…" He stopped to take a very deep breath. "…a division between the east and west."

The elder nudged his brother best he could with his hands shackled. "Divide and conquer, that's the game, huh? Do the best you can, fuckers. I've trained him to be the best goddamn soldier in the whole world. Moving us apart won't do you any good."

"I think it might." Soviet's Russia was cool as a spring breeze, with none of the promises of fresh air or flowers. "I will be taking custody of the east. Britain, France, and America will keep an eye on the west. You must decide today: who will become east and join me, who will become west."

* * *

><p>APH and all affiliated characters do not belong to me, et cetera...<p>

Hetalia canon has it that Russia did not actually "change" into Soviet Russia, he just lived in a house called the Soviet Union. You'll have to forgive me if I prefer the more dramatic almost-division of personality.

This was the failed prologue to a failed project of mine called "Canticle," which will probably end up here, too. Hope you enjoyed! Leave a comment. :)


	6. birthday party: FACE family

**Warning: more F-bombs.**

* * *

><p>The house was mostly dark when England and France's rented car pulled into the driveway. They could see that the front door was open and that Alfred was sitting on the porch steps, though, his eyes glued to a small laptop and the color of his hair oddly distorted by the light coming through the storm door. He waved noncommittally as France flicked the headlights at him, but didn't look up; only when they stepped out of the car and approached him did his attention shift away from the soft blue glow of the computer.<p>

"You two fuckers broke the camel's back, you know," he said absolutely without malice, reaching his hands back to stretch and smiling languidly.

"I don't know what you mean." England's curt tone belied his guiltiness. France's reaction was more straightforward: he only sighed and rubbed his eyes in response to the accusation.

"Forgetting Mattie's birthday again this year?" America shook his head. "You do know he's just as strong as me, right? He wrestles with Kumajiro in his full form, like, every morning. And _wins_."

"Is he here?"

"Mmm-hmm! He fell asleep on the couch when we were watching movies. Don't wake him up when you go inside, though, or he will fuck your shit up without even realizing it. He goes all Vinland when he's tired. Hey, wanna see pictures from his party?" He offered the laptop and France took it a bit apprehensively. "It was pretty small this year - Czech, most of the Nordics, Ukraine, me, Mexico showed up for like five minutes, Italy and Romano, Seychelles, Prussia, Scotland-"

"-Russia!" exclaimed Britain, peering at the screen in disbelief.

"Yeah, Ivan!" America grinned. "The Russkie's all right. He's been friends with Mattie for a looooong time - not that you'd know, because you never even think about him - but you should see him on the ice! We janked this rink near Mattie's house, got everyone on skates, and let 'em loose. Romano and Italy took pictures, 'cause they didn't like the cold... Oh! Matt brought hockey stuff, too, and we split into teams. If you see Czech coming towards you with the puck and Sweden right behind her, get the _fuck_ out of the way. Prussia had the coolest nosebleed - pretty sure I saw a picture of that somewhere - not that it matters to you, 'cause you didn't come -"

"Alfred," said France, handing the laptop to Britain and holding the bridge of his nose with one hand, "You can stop belitting us. We regret our mistake."

"I don't care if you regret it or not," said America. "It's Mattie you need to apologize to."

"To whom you need to apologize," murmured Britain.

"Fuck off, limey bastard," said America, tone still quite light. "And on top of hurting my brother's feelings, it looks like you forgot to get us presents."

* * *

><p>Still don't own Hetalia and all characters, yadda yadda...<p>

A really bad attempt at the FACE family. They've got fascinating dynamics, but I haven't managed to capture that yet. (There's a reason this story is for s**crap**s. :) )


	7. Mission: YAOI: Japan, Hungary

"This meeting is awfully boring," remarked Hungary into the radio, shifting her legs uncomfortably against the far-too-close-for-comfort wall.

"Patience, Hungary-chan," said Japan, one eye glued to his video camera (on, and just waiting to be set to 'record'). They were sitting in the air ducts, each keeping an eye on separate ends of the hallway, linked only by their headsets and an insatiable taste for manly …matters. "Good things will happen if we wait."

"Roger that." There was a sulky sigh, causing static in the airwaves.

"We have the broom closet between us," said Japan. "Something will happen, sooner or later." There was a sound of distant footfalls, rapidly approaching. "Somebody's here – it's – it's –"

"Who? Who?"

"It's only Switzerland-san and Austria-san."

"_Only?_ Are they holding hands?"

"No. I don't think they're going to the closet. They're arguing about something." Exactly what was so contentious was hard to tell – they were doing a very good job of keeping their displeasure mute - but it was obvious that both were fuming.

"Hatesex?"

"I don't think so." The footsteps went past Hungary and retreated around the corner. "The next ones, yes, it has to be."

There was a longer silence, and then, again, the sounds of approaching feet.

"Somebody's coming my way, Japan."

"From my end, too. It's England-san."

"Oh my God, oh my God! America's coming this way!"

"Are you serious?"

"Are you recording? Please tell me you're recording – Oh my God, they're totally – YES, THEY WENT INTO THE CLOSET— you got that, right?"

"Hai. My periscope-cam got it."

They waited together in breathless silence.

"Japan?"

"Yes, Hungary-chan?"

"Can we get closer?"

Pause.

"Yes. I think we can risk it."

* * *

><p><strong>...I don't know, either. xD'<strong>

**Don't own APH, characters, etc.**


	8. Coalescence: Ensemble

**Coalescence**

_If there had been a funeral, there would at least have been crying to mark the loss of Italy Veneziano._

As it was, though, the meeting room was unnaturally quiet, the rustles of papers and clothing hastily hushed, opinions voiced in strained undertones and enemies greeted with baleful nods instead of outright displeasure.

It was _lonely_.

America, this meeting's host and the only cheerful face present, was just wrapping up the second-to-last item on the agenda.

"… and that's how I think we should stop international jewel smugglers." He glanced down at his papers before clearing his throat. "And the last thing… the reading of Italy Veneziano's last will and testament, by Japan. Nobody is required to be present, though he did request for several of you to listen. Before I let you go, though, I just wanted to remind everyone that the big barbeque is still going on at my house. Everyone is invited to bring their own food and booze – except you, England, and Sweden, if you bring surströmming, you're taking home England's leftovers 'cause I know that sneaky bastard managed to run a box of _something_ _nasty_ through my airport security – and directions to my house are on the back of the program y'all have in front of you. Here're the nations he mentioned."

He listed the names off rapidly, flapping his hand once for dismissal; a few got up to leave, but most remained sitting. As the doors closed behind the last pair of heels, Japan got up and approached the podium, a heavy manila envelope clutched in his hands. He twitched the microphone to suit his height and spoke into it, expression solemn.

"Thank you very much for staying, everyone. Italy … Veneziano… left a brief written will and several DVDs, one addressed to all who were willing to listen, and some to each of us individually."

England raised his hand. "Did you know all of this before it happened, Japan? If so, why didn't you say something?"

"Forget that," said America. "Why didn't Italy just say anything, period?"

"He asked me not to do so," said Japan. "And I believe he only said something to me because he wanted my help putting everything together. It might be best to wait until you've seen it for yourself."

"He's right," said Germany, speaking for the first time. His blue eyes swept the room imperiously, daring them to disagree with him, to mock him.

* * *

><p>When I have the time... this fic will happen. But for now... the failed opening sequence.<p>

Until then, read this .net/s/6990509/1/Nothing_remains_but_a_bnormal_b_loving_daily_blife_b ...unless you don't feel like bawling for an hour straight. Like I might have done.

**I do not own Hetalia, the characters, etc.**


	9. sudoku: Spain, Romano

He got up to take a quick shower, refusing Spain's offer to join him - "That would _defeat the point_, you idiot" - and then came back to bed, smelling decidedly of lavender. (Whoever had gotten him started on those scented soaps - damn it.)

For a long time, he'd done sudoku. When Spain was still awake, though, he would cuddle up to him and do it over his shoulder - "A five could go there! Why are you putting a six? Oh! I see! How clever. Mmm, try a three." - which would wind Romano up so much that he'd actually leave the room and finish the puzzle on the porch, until Spain would coax him back with a good-night kiss. That part was nice - the making up and going to bed happy.

Romano eventually switched to crossword puzzles, which had the same problem, only worse, as Spain happened to know a ridiculous amount of trivia and had no qualms sharing it.

* * *

><p><strong>My attempt at an established relationship dynamic. What do you think - did I hit it?<strong>

**Most of my headcanon revolves around Romano. We're very similar people.**

**Hetalia and all affiliated characters do not belong to me.**


	10. Canticle: France, Germany, US, UK

**For a while, I was quite taken by the France/Germany pairing. It's not Hetalia canon, but it's basically RL canon, at least, according to the few French people I've spoken with. xD **

**This was my first try with any sort of historical setting. Hope I got something right.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Canticle I<p>

It's late at night when France gets back from his meetings with Indochina. The house is quiet, even for the hour, and he can tell without checking the schedule posted by the door that America is flying with his men to East Berlin, back and forth, back and forth…

The silence and the stillness and the darkness leave him feeling oddly vulnerable, even more so than usual. He leaves his heavy coat and gloves on as some form of armor against the discomfort in his chest, and therein lies his problem…

Ahh, he's drifted off again, eyes dull in the general direction of the list he has no intention of checking. Oh well. He's not inclined to dwell on it… he's made the trips a few times before, but the knot of unease in his stomach only tightens at the sight of his old enemy's eyes, wolflike in their hunger and fury. The land itself resents his presence, the presence of his men. Not to mention, it's hard to… hard to…

"_Do you really think we should be doing this? It's not like he wants to be occupied…"_

"_It's for everyone's good, America, now _step aside_..."_

Yes. All-in-all, turning the tables and occupying West Germany, bunking alongside America and England on their days off, it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, something coppery (maybe blood) mixed in with the bile seething in his throat. And then, declaring war on Indochina, well, he won't have quite so many planes to spare (is that why he did it? He can't quite remember right now), and…

He walks through the house, body cold and stiff within his woolen coat. The footsteps he leaves behind are those of a dead man, heavy and numb, but he pays himself no notice. There's a soft glow coming from the parlor at the end of the hallway. His Nation's vague intuition tell him it is West Germany even before the room comes into full view, asleep in front of the piano, hands still curled on the keys, frozen in an unsung chord.

France stares at him, chewing his lower lip without realizing it. This man, this Nation, robbed him of his children, and then his children's children, too, and then held a gun to his head (took a crow bar to his shoulders, locked him in the dark, brought in _his brother, _the wolf) for lack of them.

Curious, though, isn't it. Still such a young Nation (even younger than that scamp America; still a babe, really), and with his terrible blue eyes hidden behind lashed lids, he could almost pass for an overgrown human boy… no, wait: his face is too tight. France hadn't been there when England and America and Soviet Russia had divided the land (family), but he'd seen the look on the war-torn faces of his people. Human and Nation – it's getting harder for him to tell the difference – just the same.

His first instinct would be to pity the sight, but whenever the thought crosses his mind, a seize ripples through his chest and he's almost torn apart – _apart _– _it hurts that much –_

Painful, too painful. To contemplate the accumulated wounds fresh across his back and shoulders. And now, as he stares at West Germany's tense face and arms, the knot of unease and anger and deepest melancholy tightens and strains against his ribcage.

It's too painful, too much for him… he's tired of the hurting…

France's reverie is interrupted by the sound of the lock turning in the back door and the marked stomp of snowy boots on the rug. It's America, and at the sound of his quiet curse (as he knocks over the hat stand for the hundredth time, honestly) Germany springs to life, the instinctive curling of his fingers causing a grand chord to resound throughout the house. He flies from his seat to greet America, not noticing France's frail presence, face frantic. France follows him after a clear pause, burying his hands deep in his pockets as he leans against a door jamb to watch the proceedings.

America is unwinding his scarf, clearly matured and heavied by the wars, motions firm and deliberate as West Germany circles about him, firing off inquiries in rapid German. He waits patiently for the foreign tongue to give way to the natural language of Nations before replying to the flurries of questions.

"What news of my brother? What did _he _have to say?"

"I spoke with East Germany not long ago. He's apparently fine – no physical injuries – yet – I think you would feel if anything major happened –"

Germany seizes America's shoulders, and the older Nation stiffens and shifts, one hand sliding inside his jacket to where France knows a gun holster is concealed.

"_He_ said he needs time to consider," he says in that careful, wary voice, staring Germany hard in the eyes.

Germany releases him and begins to pace, cursing under his breath, cheeks tinged with anger. Only when he knocks over that damn hat stand (if Francis cared about this place beyond an obligatory crypt, he'd tell Germany to throw it out) does he snap out of the tirade and apologize profusely to America, who watched the outburst with a lowered stance and a flinty expression. America shakes it off and assumes a more neutral position, scratching the back of his neck just a bit self-consciously.

"Nah, I shouldn't have got so uptight – Fuckin' Commie. Just talking to him makes me nervous, the bastard. You wouldn't happen to have anything like whiskey 'round here, would ya? I could use me a stiff one." America's eyes find France from behind Germany, acknowledging him for the first time and with a scowl. "I heard about the war in Indochina," he says. Germany starts, realizing for the first time that France has been there and listening. The way his eyes widen and his body twitches could almost be called comical, but there is nothing funny in the way his gaze drops to the floor and darts upwards again. All the caution is masking is fear – of what, France has no idea. He's never felt so old and broken and ragged around the edges in his whole life.

"It is… necessary," he gets out at last. America's frown only deepens, but then he gives it up with a wave of his hand and turns to Germany, who is still staring at France, face pale. "If I'm drinking at an old enemy's place, it might as well be with someone whose foreign policy stinks. Why is your coat still on, anyhow?"

"I just got in a few minutes ago."

"Well, come on, then. Germany – to your liquor cabinet."

They waste no time in brewing coffee – France doesn't feel strong enough to take the brew straight and America needs the bracing bitterness to stay awake— and adding liberal amounts of alcohol. America's grunt of pain at the hot beverage a poor toast, given at such an odd hour, but he's too tired and France and Germany are wrapped up in their individual thoughts to try for anything better.

It's strange, France notes, looking around the table at Germany with his slumped shoulders, America with his drowsy half-smile and coffee mug, and France himself with his own untouched drink. The scene could almost be called familial, except for his intuitions crying at him, trying to get him to fight, to flee… even if America and West Germany have been diplomatically declared as nonthreats, his human body still recognizes them as inflictors of pain, violators…

America has just laughed too loudly at something that was not funny to begin with and Germany has shushed him, citing the imminent awakening of the househould's third temporary member, when a surly voice calls from the stairwell—

"Too late." England steps across the kitchen and seizes the bottle of liquor by the neck.

_…traitors, quislings, turncoats, deserters, sowers of thistle and weeds…_

"What's wrong, frog?" England's voice chafes at France's ears, causing his knees to tremble and shake quietly against his boots.

"Not a thing, my friend." Lies are the easiest things to utter – there is safety in their blandness, if no joy, and they slide from his lips before he even considers how he would like to reply. "It has been a long day for me, and I will bid all of you good night."

"Happy Christmas, frog," says England, picking up France's still-full mug with his free hand and downing it in one with a nasty smirk.

"Yeah, merry Christmas," adds America, raising his drink and flashing a half-smile in his general direction.

Germany's eyes follow him as he leaves the room – puzzled, curious, France can't care anymore, it does funny things to his pains – and he feels the quaking in his legs spread through his body, making his lungs shudder and his eyelashes flutter. He doesn't reach the door to his dusty bedroom before the quivering overpowers him and he curls up against the wall and tries to focus on something – anything – besides the swollen streams of hurt running through his veins and the legato rumble of conversation from downstairs, but his world has been reduced to only that.

The pain carries him away on a deceptively gentle tide towards sleep, and there he stays until the creak of stairs some time later startles him awake and he scurries to his room, leaning against the closed door and watching his window and bedcovering lighten from the early Christmas morning.

* * *

><p><strong>I believe the original intention was for this to be a healing sort of fic, chronicling the development of the FranceGermany relationship after the two nations hurt each other so much during the World Wars. I had to set up France as very... broken. The Allies were not kind to him. I think America actually bombed France the most during WWII, because of the German occupation. So. A lot of hurt.**

**which was fun to write. /shot  
><strong>

**I believe one of the earlier snippets was related to this one.  
><strong>

**Hetalia and all affiliated characters do not belong to me.  
><strong>


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